


A Box of Want, You Were Pulled Out of the Embers

by Oyyo



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Death, Dissociation, Elemental/Planar Cancer, Fantasy Racism, High-Fantasy World, Illiterate Character, Inconsistent Writing Patterns, Internal Monologues, Magic, Magical Experimentation, Multi, Murder, Non-Sexual Slavery, Nontypical Relationships to Pain, Questionable Methods to Achieving Your Goals, Self Harm, Self Harm (for pragmatic reasons), Slavery, Storm Herald Barbarian, Stress, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Yuan-ti, bad life choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oyyo/pseuds/Oyyo
Summary: Navigating newfound freedom and individuality is hard - harder still in a new country with its own people and customs. Freedom, too, has its costs.A series of non-chronological, non-consistent writing centering an OC and his experiences of the world, in relation to other OCs and events that happen within the campaign setting. Occasional non-canon works may appear, which will be marked as such.





	1. promise you'll say if it gets too much

**Author's Note:**

> Title for work is from Always New Depths, Bloc Party. Note that the album is very critical of the US, if you look up the song and are alarmed by the EP cover.
> 
> Chapter title is from Storm & Stress, Bloc Party. Takes place after the party arrives in the Underdark, and Yarrow finds out they trade slaves.

why did he fucking agree to this--why didn't he focus more on the maps that Uvek was reading out? maybe there would have been a hint--why didn't  _ Koromo _ tell him--

walking in the dark feels like a death sentence. they told him, back in the first village he came across, struggling not to hiss his syllables, that  _ slaves _ were unknown to those parts. illegal. he just assumed it would be the same in Soulspire--but it all comes back to that hiss, slaves Soulspire, fitting that they all sound so similar to his old tongue

yarrow twitches as Jon comes up, to be guided by the new one. drow. why didn't he pay attention, did Jon know did Amadeus know? Uvek? yarrow can feel the gaze on his back but he doesn't want to talk to them, touch any of them, wishes he went with Inriel off to whatever heaven or hell he calls home

the saddest is that he knows these people are different, no serpentine bodies but the dimness from the vision spell doesn't seem stranger than stars over forest growth. if he takes too deep a breath, under the musty cave he smells loam, unrich soil and the water of the rainforest, the dripping off the caves sound like water

he would jump into the maw of Merrshaulk with them if they asked, but this is a danger he can't face. yarrow knows himself, remembers how long it took that first family that let him stay in their barn to convince him that he didn't need to kow-tow to anyone with more authority, he didn't need to guess, just stay calm. it's still so hard to meet the eyes, even unslitted there are twenty-odd years of warning for  _ attack _ and  _ danger _ , meeting eyes is a good way to get eaten. it's a good way for Master to peer inside and fleece his mind from the inside out for the rage, misery, sarcasm yarrow thinks when he sees the bodies of the yuan-ti, twisted in a pathetic facsimile of their horrid gods. for the way yarrow wishes he were not a twisted experiment for his  _ Master _ (and even now yarrow dares not call him by his name), and lived and died with the other slaves - at least he would not be alone. 

_ expect me to make a fucking tunic for something with the upper body of a snake, no arms--what do you put it in, a mouth? bridle them like a beast-- _

and pain.

they're standing at a precipice, and yarrow doesn't remember how they got there. the blue crystals shine through the city, and it's beautiful and now that he has freedom, he wonders if he can burn it all to the ground. it's not the politically  _ correct _ thing to do, and he curses himself again because he could have asked to turn back, but he can't

they're unprepared, yarrow thinks. all but the drow, who's an unknown. what if he just wants to sell them into slavery? Amadeus will talk at someone the wrong way and be dead in seconds, if they don't kill him for being too  _ weak _ with that leg of his; Jon might escape but he wouldn't leave the rest of them to rot which would be his undoing; Uvek will stand and scream at them and refuse to go down until they kill him for defiance. he wishes Inriel were here. Inriel would be happy to burn the place down with him--

and the drow is unknown, already changing appearance from one to another and is it really  _ safe _ , yarrow doesn't like that magic that plays with sight and mind 

they need someone there who knows how it all works, if worst comes to worst they need someone who knows the game, knows how to keep them alive. a bargaining chip.  _ protection. _

if that is the only thing yarrow can do for them, that is what he will do.


	2. Fear of Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yarrow prepares for his evening, on some island, far away from everything he will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Fear of Failure, Sea Wolf. No particular warnings for this, beyond alcohol use and interaction with Master in a neutral, subservient way. And mind reading.

He has a thousand things to do.

Yarrow focuses on those as he prepares Master's room. Tomorrow he has training with Izuri. Ysidro will likely be there to throw more of Flesh at them, test both group's combat strategies. Water by the sleeping nest. As Master has turned him to combat practice, he needs to train others for his household chores. The front room must be swept by overmorrow - the ground should be rough enough for scales to grip with little problem, but smooth enough to look beautiful. Heating stones under the mattress. He needs to find another slave that he trusts not to screw it up - for their sake as well as his. He peels back the blankets, folding them precisely. The cookstaff need to be informed that they should braise the meat, not bake - Commander Ololo has different preferences from Master, and Master wishes to appeal to that.

As he hears the heavy slide of scales on stone, he throws himself to the floor on his knees. Eyes down, hands on knees palms down, let his hair fall around his face so he can observe clearly without being disrespectful. His Master has bid him make ceremonial dresses for him and those under. Feathers, he thinks, in the household's colors. Blue and yellow, perhaps green quetzal feathers?

“Only as a hint. The turquoise should be the centerpiece,” Master says, though Yarrow did not feel a mental intrusion. There’s a brief moment of anxiety before he settles himself. That will have to be handled by a Flesh - slaves cannot touch turquoise, only People can. It’ll take less time, then, but more coordinating with his old mentor in weaving.

“Yes, Master.”

He sees the flash of a hand and gets up with little effort, keeping his eyes averted as he takes his Master’s adornments, hanging them carefully. Turquoise, his master manages himself, returning the jewelry to the case. Yarrow stands carefully to the side, hands interlocked behind his back. 

“Go.” Yarrow bows low, and backs off - turning his back to his Master is a good way to be punished. He slides the door shut, and keeps thinking about his tasks.

It’s only once he gets to the slave quarters that he lets down his guard. Not fully, never fully. Just enough to take a breath and close his eyes for a moment. Bring his water skin to his mouth and drain it empty.

There are six slaves here, two People of Flesh, and three of Mixed Blood. Himself as the longest lasting. Izuri, who had been here for three years, as a tutor for him, and shock trainer for Master’s troops. Two who do the slaughtering and cooking, Mirado and Destine. The other Mixed Blood’s personal slaves, Cricket and Jaime. Those of Flesh did not warrant personal slaves, though they could ask to use any of them as a reward for what they’ve accomplished. The other two Mixed Bloods, dangerous but unable to directly punish Yarrow, as a consequence of his being Master’s. 

He knows where everyone is likely to be. It’s what allows him to move quietly through the kitchen and into the cellar, keeping his mind on the designs for clothing even as he snags the key from the spot his Master thinks it’s well hidden in. The feathers should accentuate the shoulders for Master, he thinks as he pads downstairs, a small candle in his hand, but not make him look gaudy. Yarrow sets the candle down as he begins to pull opened bottles from the shelves. The same style won’t work for Mesha, who has no shoulders. Yarrow tips a tiny amount from each bottle of tequila into his waterskin. Maybe a simulation, to give the suggestion of wings. It might be flattering, or it could look completely silly.

There are enough bottles that he can get to half full quickly enough. It doesn't take much of this to get drunk. Yarrow caps the skin and glances over the jugs quickly, making sure they are well placed, just as they were. No stray fingerprints or drops to give him away. Just the cool underground stone and the dim candlelight. 

He blows it out, letting the darkness fold around him like a protective blanket, and goes up the stairs. He has an appointment to keep with Izuri. If there's a little alcohol involved, who's to know?


	3. Putting the Pyre in Pyrrhic Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first few seconds it’s sharp in a way nothing else has ever been or will ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate chapter names: burning ring of fire, this barbarian's on fire
> 
> Jokes aside, this is where most of the tags/warnings come in. Dissociation, self harm, and emotionally graphic description of said self harm. Also ancient medicine use, from someone not trained in any kind of healing.

Yarrow has a problem.

Over the years, he’s tried to escape a few times. He’s never managed to get further than a canoe that smashed against the reef, because they live on a fucking _island_. There are other islands, distant on the horizon but present all the same - but he’s sure they’re hunting grounds for the Yuan-ti. If he wants to escape, truly escape, he needs to go in another direction and pray. He’s tried following the paths of some of the large ships they used, but apparently there’s a trick to it he doesn’t know about. 

So he’s a flight risk. Flight risks among the Yuan-ti slaves get a tattoo inscribed on their chests, just below the left collarbone. Even if he can’t truly read the language, he’s not so dumb that he doesn’t know it’s the first letter of the word _slave_.

He doesn’t know much about the rest of the world, other than what Izuri’s taught him about her tribe. He doesn’t know how likely they are to recognize the tattoo for what it is - but he can’t take the risk. He doesn’t know how he got here, but if Shikran is able, Yarrow’s sure he’ll come. He’s put too much effort into crafting Yarrow as his personal weapon to avoid it. He’s had years of practice to avoid drawing attention with his body language, but all someone needs to do is catch a glimpse of the tattoo for that to be noticeable. Not to mention, he’s sure the Yuan-ti aren’t the first or last to come up with the idea of branding slaves. If the wrong person hears or sees it, it could get bad. 

Not to mention - he doesn’t think so, but he doesn't _know_ \- that the tattoo could be magical. It might be paranoid. He doesn’t give a shit.

There’s a solution, though. A man with a chest scar is different from a man with a deliberately placed chest tattoo.

He picks fire. It can warp the skin and seal things under it in alarming ways, and it’s easier to pose as some kind of accident, rather than tearing into his skin with a dagger, and he would have to flay the skin to make sure it would scar in such a way that the tattoo would be covered. ‘I got my chest flayed open in torture’ is more notable than ‘bad cooking accident.’ It’s a little hard to justify how the cooking accident got on his chest, not his hands, but Yarrow hopes most people won’t ask the question anyway. He doesn’t intend on being shirtless around many _anyway_ , but he doesn’t want to take the risk of something going wrong.

The process is simple.

He finds pitch, and tests the flammability and consistency on a few dead boars over a month - he gets it to where it burns just right. He gets a torch, and practices putting it out quickly - he doesn’t want to waste his resources. He finds a nice, isolated cave to shelter in, with a trickling source of water. He collects spider webs over a few days, winding them around a stick, and breaks into a hunting cabin to steal a few rags to bind the burn. Lucky him, there’s a small, half-full jar of honey that he takes with him.

The last thing is to do it. Yarrow braids his hair, up and away, to keep it from catching fire.

The pitch itself, once it’s made, has a cloying, almost sweet scent as he drips it below his collarbone. The heat is painful, but not overwhelming as he stares ahead. What’s almost worse is the way it contracts his skin as it hardens, tugging, itching. He makes sure to spread it well over the tattoo.

Yarrow’s hands are steady as he lights the torch. A sour taste fills his mouth, but he wrenches his thoughts away from fear, and sinks, sinks into himself.

A long burn, but not too long. It’ll be done in under thirty seconds. He takes a last breath, and brings the torch to his chest.

Pain brings a focus like nothing else. It narrows everything down to instinct, and sends shivers up his spine. The energy sets in quickly, and the pain stops being _pain_ and starts being _fuel_ , a reason to keep moving. It makes it hard to focus on the details, but the details don’t matter in a fight. 

For the first few seconds it’s _sharp_ in a way nothing else has ever been or will ever be, and his fist wraps around the torch, fingers tacky and it’s out, it’s out and he’s flinging it away because this is--

His head cracks against the sloped stone as he arches, eyes squeezed shut--

Mouthing a scream--

He looks down, and then he’s looking down _at_ himself, distant, and wants to laugh because oh shit, he didn’t remember that the pitch would liquify and there goes his left nipple. 

Yarrow laughs, but the laugh hurts his own ears and throat with how loud it is and, and it’s about when he smells his own roasting flesh that he passes out.

He wakes up. Tries to roll over, and then the world’s tilting dark again--

The second time Yarrow wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. His breathing is fast, and he’s shivering, breath coming quickly. He pushes himself up slowly, gasping, half-gagging, but he manages to sit against the wall. He feels feverish, like the fire’s poisoned him, and he’s shivering. Shocky all over, he rests against the wall, and _does not look down_.

The stuff he needs to dress the wound is only a few meters away. The water isn’t much farther than that. As far as Yarrow’s concerned, it’s a mile off.

Eventually, he crawls his way there, with frequent breaks to catch his breath. Yarrow knows with certainty that if he sees the wound he’s going to start screaming and never stop, so instead of looking, he finds the edges with his fingers. The sensation is--crackled, yet oozy. No gushing blood, but he can’t actually feel it but for the pressure on his ribs. Then he drags his fingers down, and the world goes white for a moment.

It takes a long time to map out the edges of the wound, but each excruciating touch is another chance at surviving this. He dips two fingers in the honey, and begins to spread it from the inside, out. A break, to breath carefully, then the webbing. By this point, he’s shaking so badly he decides to give up on the rags for now, and focuses on getting to the trickle of water. He washes his hand, covered in honey and blood and other fluids he doesn’t know the names of, and presses his mouth to the stone to catch the trickle.

The next couple of days go like that, sleeping, drinking, meeting the most basic of needs. Eventually he’s standing, but he can’t use his left arm, and doing anything more than shuffling is...bad.

The third morning, he puts everything he owns into the pack, holds it in one hand, and makes his way to the cabin. There’s a store of nuts that he manages a few handfuls of before he crawls into the bed again.

The feverish sensation doesn’t leave. Yarrow doesn’t know if there’s a bad infection, or if this is just what being burned so badly feels like, but he doesn’t die. His dreams are strange and muted, not terrifying but faintly upsetting.

One day, he gets up. It hurts, but it’s not overwhelming anymore. He’s weak, but he can move. He starts setting traps for small animals, and makes sure to eat all the organ meat he can. He tests plants, and eats both fruit and root of those he decides aren’t going to kill him.

The motion in his arm comes back, slowly. It’ll never be what it was, and when he gets back to fighting, he takes to holding a shield there - stamina rather than winding up for a range of motion he doesn't have. The scars are gruesome, but he can only see the barest touch of ink under it.

He survived his Masters - this burn is nothing. 


End file.
